Brainful
by LittleMissDelirious
Summary: The apocalypse is nigh! (Or so the rumour goes.) Ozians everywhere are in a panic, desperate to make their final thirty-one days count. All except Fiyero Tigelaar: a newly thoughtful young man who sees it as an opportunity to make his feelings for Elphaba known. And returned. Fiyeraba. Shiz-era.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Since it's been so long I wanted to start with an icebreaker, but Kristoff didn't show, so...**

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**Brainful – **\'brān-full\ (adj.) : not devoid of intelligence : not really stupid

(Credits: Ozford Dictionary)

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**Pastoruary 1****st****, 0019 (A.W.): Fiyero Tigelaar's Off Day**

There was a time when Galindas were kind, when their voices were soft. And Avaric seemed witty, and the OzDust good fun, and the good already greater because of that. Back then Fiyero's life had made sense, as surely as two plus two had equaled _who cares_. He had had a queen, a kingdom, loyal subjects, a sturdy reputation; a whole lot of everything conducive to glorious nothing. The Ozian dream, plus some.

Then it all went wrong.

His crime? Volunteering himself for the first dissection ever to occur in a history class. Had apathy not taken its job so apathetically, he could have left the Lion to her den and been drawing mustaches on his frozen classmates like a consistent little charlatan, but alas, here he stood. _Unhappy _was such a funny word, so was _love. _He couldn't be sure about either, only that he was stranded in the frigid, overpopulated centre of both.

Also hell, by the time peer-portrait day rolled around.

The underworld appeared schoolish, naturally, and reeked of slathered paint and stale octogenarian. Students in shirtsleeves smearing their noses against canvases, adjusting lip proportions while gnawing on their own, were arranged in a circle with the muses composing the innards. The banter was banal, the atmosphere subdued. Light filtered in through windows tall enough to compensate for the overcast skies and broad enough to expose the pristine grounds, along with the prisoners who had chosen linguistics and science and mathematics over solitary confinement.

Fiyero felt as though he was collecting dust just being present in the room. He'd lost half his graphite pencils to a scuffle with gravity ten minutes previous and had left them scattered around his feet with no intention of retrieving them.

_You're going to have to get this done eventually, _Logic reminded him. _Might as well do it now. _

That was the thing with this guy. Everything he said was easier _said_.

Avaric was standing with one foot propped up on the stool. He had one hand tucked into his navy blazer and his chin tilted towards the corner of the ceiling in a way that would have come across as noble to anyone who'd never heard him speak.

"I don't think you understand," Fiyero said, reaching for his supplies, "that I was so eagerly anticipating our game of _Sit Your Ass Down._"

"I don't think _you _understand," Avaric rejoined, "that I have a smolder that could impregnate a man, and I intend to use it."

Fiyero shuddered, reverting to memory to guide his pencil across an eyebrow.

"Don't you avert your eyes at me."

_Expulsion_, he thought, _there's always expulsion. _

_Feasible, yes, _Logic reckoned. _Likely? No. _

Given that last Fiyeroball incident and Boq's three weeks in the hospital, it would be likelier than feasible and feasibler than likely. Should something happen to augment the misconduct, the king would have to part with the remainder of the Vinkun treasury to preserve his son's place in Shiz University, so Fiyero could kiss goodbye to the hallowed halls and vine-draped walls and open his arms to East Gillikin State. There would always be other schools to fish out, and always other artichokes in the crop.

_Really? _Logic said dubiously. _Look left. Oh, wait. You've already been doing that._

Attentive little bastard.

_Attentive little bastard with a point._

Galinda was a sincerely talented individual, Fiyero gave her that much. Somehow she had coaxed (nearly) painless obedience out of Elphaba. Moreover, she had confiscated Elphaba's literary contraband, glasses, hair pins, boots, a mangled paperclip and four pencils and had received barely any protest. Then the positioning had taken place. Then the repositioning. Then the re-repositioning. And though the ensuing grumbles had been amusing, they had deeply affected Fiyero, who felt every instruction rattling his eardrums and every adjustment prodding him square in the stomach, but believed his comments best saved for when things were settled.

Now he saw Avaric criticizing Crope's Tibbett, heard Logic spin insults from his own repertoire of profanities, and decided there was no _when _like the present. With patent Tigelaar subtlety, he grasped his easel by the sturdy legs and tilted it so the third folded inward.

Inching.

_Inching._

Almost.

_Almooooost._

"Say Galinda, looks like you're having some trouble there."

She made no reply.

"Well, first of all, you're approaching the facial structure all wrong."

She wrenched her work out of his line of vision, signalling for Elphaba to pivot in accordance.

Skidding fluidly to Galinda's side, Fiyero peered over at the stencilled ellipse once more. He rubbed his chin and his cheeks, humming in the abyss of his throat. "It occurs to me that perhaps you've chosen the wrong subject." He paused and glanced up at her, then repeated the move, unaccustomed to the vibrant crimson blush she seemed to have misapplied all over her face. "It happens. A young artist claws at the first tendril of an idea that makes itself apparent..."

"Is that so?"

_Abort mission, Captain_, warned Logic.

"Oh, definitely." Fiyero patted Galinda's shoulder. "It's not your fault. You're a victim of your generation. You didn't realize that something so volatile had to be wrangled, conquered, mastered for every angle it can afford. Maybe you and I should switch. You would do better with Avaric's Gillikinese refinement."

Six eyes zeroed in on Avaric, who had commandeered the portrait of Tibbett and left Crope sprawled out on the floor, massaging an ache or three.

"You could call it Art _Class._"

Fiyero leant around the partition of his board and indulged in a languid assessment of Galinda's startling, cynical, slightly amused, shamelessly brunette better half. "Elphie! I didn't see you there!"

"I'd lend you my glasses, but—"

"You're afraid I'd look better in them than you. Common misconception," he interrupted.

"—I'm concerned for your safety. A good many princes have lost their sight that way."

Fiyero puffed out his chest. "I assure you I can handle a little high prescription."

"A high prescription doesn't make the pointed ends any less pointed, good sir."

"_Ahem-hem-hem-hem._"

Six eyes relocated Avaric.

"I _hate_ to interrupt," he said, having discovered the sanctified union of his ass and the stool, "but Sunshine's falling apart like a cheap accordion over there."

The invisible tennis ball bounced back to Galinda, who rolled her blouse – though not hers as she always made sure to dredge up something from Elphaba's side of the closet when the prospect of paint loomed – to her elbows and smoothed out every imagined crease. "One has to admire that agonizing honesty," she muttered.

"Now, more importantly, do I still get paid if you neglect your duties?"

"You don't _get _paid." Fiyero jerked his easel back into position. "You've agreed to contribute your untarnished beauty out of the goodness of your heart."

"Oh. Then why is Elphie here?"

"So Fiyero can draw her," Galinda sneered, tearing her infantile sketch from the pad and letting it flare out, like a parachute, in a peaceful glide to the bottom of the rubbish bin.

"And why am I still here?"

Sensing danger, Elphaba abandoned her seat. "Good question," she said in a rare show of Avaricward support. "A real universal truth kind of thing. Shall we go ponder it over something caffeinated?"

"_We?_ As in you a—" Avaric was silenced with a look one degree shy of setting him on fire, "—re a ravishing shade of avocado today. Coming, Sunshine?"

Galinda shook her head.

"Nessa would absolutely love to be drawn by you," Elphaba said, oozing finality and relief. She took Galinda's hands as Fiyero watched, trying to discern what was happening through the fog of his dilemma. "Meet us later, okay?" she continued, pressing into the footwear previously seized from her.

On the peripheral, he saw the Hard Place nod, but the better part of his attention was still allotted to the retreating figure of the Rock with a heavily entertained Avaric on her heels, tossing insinuating smirks over his shoulder. Only when they had vacated the classroom did Fiyero force himself to address the Hard Place, his fingers curling with frostbite and his guts knotting each other into bows. Her eyes bore into him deeply.

"Galinda, I never meant...I don't want there to be...could we..."

She was a gust of air, strawberry-scented with a hint of vanilla.

_Women are beyond me, _moaned Logic.

* * *

"Green tea for Elphie." Avaric fired the ceramic cup off in a vague direction. "Coffee for Galinda – black like your soul—" he winked at her as if to proclaim _I'm on to you,_ "—and cocoa with extra marshmallows for Training Wheels. Blow on it first, love. Annnnd, for the handsomest man in the room, _real_ coffee. Premium Vinkun roast."

With the resignation that accompanied Avaric's tired refreshment-run routine, Nessa passed her beverage to Galinda, Galinda passed hers to Elphaba and Elphaba completed the round, blowing on the steaming surface of the mug in her possession before passing it to Nessa.

"What about me?" Fiyero demanded.

Parked in the seat beside him, Avaric reached into the centre of the table for the sugar shaker, shook some particles into his coffee and emptied the rest on Fiyero's head in one deft gesture. "There never was a friend sweet as you, Yer-Bear," he said.

"Appreciate it."

"You're just going to sit there?" Nessa asked after a moment, determined to stifle her laughter.

Fiyero folded his hands on the surface of the table, disturbing the miniature mountains of sugar sitting atop his shoulders. His dark hair glistened with the integrated crystals. "I've accepted my fate, Nessa. Have you accepted yours?"

"Oh, _yes_." Her focus was trained past Fiyero in a glassy-eyed gaze directed at the Munchkin holding up a horde of students in the entranceway of the aptly-named Rendezvous Café. Before Avaric could advise the group to duck, she waved him over. "We're here, Boq!" she called, eliciting a collective groan. Galinda cast a plaintive glower at the vacant seat beside her.

Intention trumped the confusion in Boq's expression and he raced towards their table. "Did you see the paper today?" he asked, visibly breathless, tossing said paper into the midst of their amiable mood. He knew they hadn't. He knew them. So much so that he didn't bother asking about Fiyero's innovative headwear.

Elphaba read the headline to herself and immediately dismissed it. "Don't start with this again."

"It's snowing in _Qhoyre_, Elphie, with thirty days left! The Quadlings are up to their knees in pre-apocalyptic fluff!"

"Fourth world problems," Avaric laughed, scanning the group for signs of approval.

"Thirty days left if there are thirty days left. Which there are _not_," Elphaba stated, trisecting the paper and handing the horoscopes to Galinda and the cartoons to Fiyero, whilst retaining the opinion columns for herself.

Boq frowned, dropping into a chair. "But last week Ugabu fell to the Flinish militia."

"A pity," Elphaba replied.

Avaric drummed his fingers against the table. "Can I just—"

"There's an ongoing drought in the Vinkus. It's the second worst history has seen!" Boq exclaimed. He was aware that he was challenging the reigning opinion of an impenetrable fortress, but he did so for those incarcerated in the tower by association. "Illswater is drying up!"

"All I'd like to –"

"Coincidence," Elphaba ruled.

Boq unleashed a string of unintelligible words followed by, "The trade disagreement with the Glikkus! Gillikinese debt! The advent of the pleasure faith! Weather fluctuations!" Then, mustering every vestige of vehemence, he huffed and he puffed and he blew, "They say the Yellow Brick Road is turning _orange_!"

"Heh," Avaric said, "isn't—"

She counted them off with her fingers. "Hardly worrying, inevitable, hilarious, temporary, check your sources."

The final stop on Boq's calamity train: "Animals."

Avaric started, "You know—"

"Political discrepancies soon to be sorted out," Elphaba said.

"By who?" Boq said. "Seems to me that the Wizard already has a decent helping of national emergency on his plate."

Avaric tried, "By—"

"By yours truly."

"_Yours _is _truly_ starting to get on my nerves," Avaric not-so-mumbled.

Elphaba bit back the remainder of her refute and rounded on him, her cheeks medium rare. Defence mode made it nearly impossible for her to distinguish between those she viewed as opponents and those she viewed as idiots, seeing as they were already so similar. "Fine. Enlighten us, Tenmeadows. What do you think?"

Blank. Complacent. Typical. "What do I think about what?"

"About the rumour."

"Yes, about...the..." Avaric took a long sip of his coffee and winced. He dusted some sugar off Fiyero's shoulder into his cup and swirled it. "...rumour..."

"You don't know about the rumour?" Boq asked incredulously.

Galinda gasped as though breaking the surface of water. "Pfannee's twelve toes? I _know, _right? It's icky and peculiar, but at least there are _two _extras, so they're balanced, I guess. Unless they're on the same foot, in which case—"

"Uh...no, actually, that's riveting Miss Galinda, but we're discussing the rumour about the end of the world. The coming apocalypse." Boq held up a hand to stave off open-mouthed Elphaba. This one was his. "You must have heard about it at some point. The concept first came about many years ago when a group of Gillikinese archeology students travelled to Scrow country in search of an artifact significant enough to merit a premature graduation. They managed to cross the width of the province straight to the brink, to Kvon Altar, where they came upon an unusual structure. Shaped like a sundial and heavy as all hell purportedly, but they lugged it back to the Emerald City to be scrutinized. (There's no need to look so proud, Av, in that interim they could have graduated with their class.)

"Anyway, turns out it was an archaic calendar, charting every day from creation by—" Boq glanced around warily, "—uh...that, you know, supreme being...to the disappearance of Tippetarius ,and accounting for post-Ozmacracy until Pastoruary thirty-first, 0019 After Wizard, where it abruptly ends. Some take this to mean that the end of Oz is nigh, seeing as it, _Elphie_, seamlessly coincides with the chain, _Elphie_, of uncanny cataclysms springing up, _Elphie_, of late. So far only Quadling Country's full-on tasting the pandemic, but this is the beginning of the end. Their food production is paralyzed, ruby mines blocked and, well, have you ever seen a Mud-fellow in so much as a jacket? To say nothing's happening is ignorant. The countdown is on. Four, three, two, done."

There was pensive silence. The bustling clientele had diminished, allowing it to hang around them with greater intensity. Boq looked at Galinda, Galinda looked at Elphaba, Elphaba at Nessa, Nessa at Avaric, Avaric at Fiyero.

"We ought to have storytime more often," concluded Galinda.

Boq faceplanted into his hands.

"Why, he's hardly finished," Elphaba said coolly. "He didn't get to the part about the market forces exploiting the gullibility of the masses or the growing trend of brash, vindicated impulsivity. We'll be seeing a population spike come Tipptember."

Avaric hadn't batted an eyelash throughout the duration of Boq's spiel either. "Also, it's a difficult theory to buy when we've already proved that Elphie has a beautiful life ahead of her. Seventy-three cats and counting."

Fiyero scowled. "That's not true."

"And a Vinkun on a leash."

"I think it's perfectly plausible," Nessa said. "We all knew Judgement Day was upon us."

Avaric snickered. "You must be pretty used to being judged, pulling that kind of reasoning."

"You must be pretty brave, challenging the covenant of the Unnamed God."

They were back on track, bound for the familiar loop. Elphaba would vocally jump Avaric for slighting Nessa, Nessa would berate Elphaba for assuming her argumentatively feeble, Avaric would call upon Lurline for mercy to further aggravate the situation, repeat if necessary. As he was prone to doing when things took a turn for the metaphysical, Fiyero abdicated his limited foothold in the conversation and retreated into his cave of more important matters. Perhaps when the sun was hurtling towards the ground in flaming chunks he would concern himself with eternal salvation, but for now he was scrambling to accommodate for this new quandary.

(_Thoughts breed like rabbits. You have two, you have seventeen_, Fiyero thought seventeen times to fulfill his own joke.)

His ancestors and Boq had a point. Either the world would end in thirty-one days or Elphaba would board a train to the Emerald City and the world would really end. The Wizard would install her at his right hand, treat her like a princess or an expendable intern, harvesting for the good of Oz the zeal that would be better spent putting Fiyero in his place. And Fiyero would nod off in the study hall between la misérable and le fou, wondering if Elphaba was well-hydrated, if her head was swollen with the hot air of high society, if he would ever see her again, if these days of dangerous contemplation – ticklish and tormentuous as the grains of sugar slipping into his collar and down his back – spelled out his entire future.

He couldn't live like this. Not for thirty-one days. Not _forever_.

"Look everyone, it's thinking again."

"You have no idea," Fiyero replied. He wasn't sure who the wiseguy was – anyone was game. Force of habit, his eyes darted towards Elphaba. She was bowed over the newspaper, but there was the unmistakable curve of a smile parting her lips. She was amused. Fiyero couldn't help it. He smiled too.

_Pursuing a relationship with her is going to be as fruitful as mixing a primary colour from secondaries_, figured Logic.

But it was going to be done.

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**A/N: This story is dedicated to RavenCurls, who really ought to draw Avaric like one of her Vinkun boys.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Is everyone else in post-this-weekend recovery mode? I almost spent my Wicked/tuition fund on clearance chocolate just now and then thought it through _responsibly_. So this is adulthood.**

**Thank you bbz for the feedback, reviews, follows, favourites and, yes, even the hit-and-runs. And if you happened to be a part of yesterday's befuddling-but-heartwarming influx of favourites, thank you squared. Power to the ever-present Mama Elphie. ****Wowe, such pun.**

**Elphabalover101, since your name is all over my inbox, it can go here too. This chapter is for you. I hope you like Fiyero in Blunderland and Avarose.**

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**Pastoruary 2****nd****, 0019 (A.W.): The Grades of Wrath**

Target locked. Predatory gaze. Claws detracted.

"She froze the class, jeopardizing the safety of twenty-four students, ran away with a Lion, effectively _stealing _the lesson, and somehow she's _still _getting a better mark than I am."

Fiyero emerged from his trance and noticed Boq splayed across the next desk, staring in the same northern direction that had attracted his compass needle eyes. _Humph. _"I jeopardized your safety and stole the lesson too, you know."

"But the chances of you topping my grade are on par with Galinda getting my name right."

_Humph _even more. "So that ship has sailed?"

"Of course not."

The immediacy of the response was so touching that Fiyero's irritation melted into forgiveness. He could almost bring himself to pretend that Boq had it in him to woo Galinda and Galinda had it in her to be wooed by Boq. They were one of a kind after all, he and this Munchkin, like a fearsome, brilliant, imperial jungle cat and a house cat. It took a real man to know his limitations.

Groaning with exaggerated reluctance, Boq propped himself up and flipped open his textbook. "Did you finish the notes on the Half-Day War?" he asked. "I don't understand how an event that lasted six hours could translate to thirty pages."

Fiyero's features scrunched. "Do I look like someone who takes notes to you?"

Sometimes Boq could feel the evaporation of competence, like heat, from his scalp. Fiyero's company was intellectual winter. "I was making conversation is all. I didn't know note-taking diligence could be measured in appearance," he said.

"So young, so oblivious." Fiyero knocked Boq's shoulder with the back of his hand. "Get that expression off your face. I'm not _belittling_ you. You ought to know that everything can be measured in appearance." He tipped his chair on its hind legs, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Allow Papa Fiyero to educate you."

_What did we say about calling yourself Papa Fiyero in public? _Logic chided.

Papa Fiyero was unimpeded. "A note-taker probably has glasses—"

"Gee, _insightful_."

"—and an overall aura of erudition. Tucks a pen into her bun. Reveres the book in hand as a sixth sense you'll never have. Knows more than the teacher and flaunts it. Protective of her work...no, protective of _herself_. Has a nervous tic like nail-biting or pen-chewing or playing with her hair. Has a look that could make God an atheist. Dedicated to few, annoyed by many. And is magnificently devilish in the—"

"Now this is going too far."

"—kitchen—"

"Oh."

"—when she suggests we have sex on the table before the dinner party we're throwing for your birthday."

_Mind the hors d'oeuvres, will you? _Logic requested, wading through the steadily rising pool of fantasy.

"Charming, but table sex doesn't get these notes..." Boq stopped, overcome with plans orbiting the same figure. His diagonal angle afforded him a glimpse of the pen she was going at with her incisors and the intricate ballet of fingers mussing the unbraidable strands of hair around her ear. The breeze of a peaceful sigh carried, as there was no Galinda or Nessarose in the vicinity to snare her by the dedication. "ELPHIE," he cried, basking in the unique glow of an idea borne of laziness.

Meanwhile, the shades were drawn in Fiyero's corner. "Boq? Boq, what are you doing? _Boq, _what are you _doing_?"

"ELPHABAAAAAAH!" the Munchkin yodelled all the way home, or at least onto the cobblestones of Memory Lane, where he had lovingly played catch with his good friend Elphaba at the tender age of three.

Just with rocks.

Just without her knowing.

"Darling Elphie, where's Nessarose on this fine day?" he asked.

"She's not feeling well."

Believable on those dark lips, and all the more deceitful because of it. Nessarose Thropp, for all her righteousness, was a serial skipper. "That's unfortunate," Boq said anyway, "because my friend Fiyero over there, maybe you know him, expressed some interest in borrowing her notes. I guess we'll settle—"

And it was like an ozquake, a tornado, an apocalypse in its own right. Full force, game-changing, life-twisting. It was the colossus of the one-man lion pride defending his territory with naught but brute strength. Or, rather, two unprincipled blows to the vulnerable pressure points at the waist and a well placed knee to render the foe floored.

"—expressed some interest in _collaborating _with _you _on your note-taking." Fiyero clasped his hands together and directed them at Elphaba to illustrate his point. "And Boq under here, maybe you know him, in joining forces with your sister."

Elphaba had ignored the valiant assailment and continued to ignore the assailer. "I see you got the sugar out of your hair," she observed blindly.

He laughed, remembering the flurry of complaints and the din of Avaric's maniacal laughter distorted by distance. "I see you got that frilly pink weed out of yours."

A fleeting smile, a recollection not all that different, then: "Nessa and I have finished the notes."

"Did Nessa finish or did you finish?"

"We're all a little finished, aren't we?"

"Sure." Fiyero nudged Boq aside and claimed the seat beside her, peering into the realm of slanted handwriting and firework bullet points that was so foreign to him. "What are you working on?" he asked.

"A philosophy paper."

"On?"

Elphaba pushed at her sleeves and scratched her elbows. "Perhaps you should drag Boq to the nurse."

Raised eyebrows, expectant expression. He was the very _definition_ of suave. No wonder she was hesitant. "On?"

"Um...the similarities between a raven and a writing desk."

"Sounds interesting," he lied. She wasn't looking at him anymore. Why wasn't she looking at him anymore? He had taken it too far, bared the fangs too soon. He was _too _suave.

"I assure you it isn't," she said, tone curt.

_Keep her talking, _instructed Logic. _Say something smart and, for Oz's sake, lower your eyebrows. They're not on your forehead anymore. _

"Well, I suppose it's simply too easy a topic. They both start with R, do they not?"

Elphaba blinked at him.

_You make my job so difficult._

However, contrary to Logic's disgust, it worked. She was caught offguard and the tension dissipated. "Oh, yes. That's why I chose it. That, and...well, it _means _something to me. I see myself—" she stretched her arms in front of her, fingers apart, painting her aspiration, "—in a circular office. There are portraits of various Ozian greats on the wall, a thick carpet, shelves sagging with the weight of all the books jammed onto them. And below the window, where the natural light sits for majority of the day, my very own righting desk."

"Yeah." Fiyero nodded, feeling it segue into a vigorous shake. "No. We really have to reconsider that...that whole _leaving_ thing."

"Did you have dibs on that office?"

"I think—"

"Huzzah."

His face crumpled into a glare. "The one-joke wonder returns. Hide the women and children." He managed to pick himself up and trudge on. "You can't go. This Half...Thing...War stuff...it's just not clicking," he said, scavenging the last of the useable material from the wasteland of his brain.

"You got _half _the name right. That's a start."

The gleam in her eyes was so lovely. Fiyero forgot his name. "Maybe you should come to my dorm and we can table sex."

"Wha—"

"Mhm, maybe you should come to my dorm and you can tutor me."

_Well, _Logic said, writhing with laughter, _it couldn't possibly get worse. _

Than the quasi-amused, quasi-offended way she was staring? No, it couldn't. Her eyes were narrowed, her mouth still framing her response. He raked a hand through his hair, feigning nonchalance despite having lost the ability to make those...what were they called...those _things_ come out of his mouth. Fiyero grabbed the pen lying in front of her and pressed on the tip, drawing absentminded circles. "And we can have the much needed talk about what happened," he choked out.

"Fiyero."

"And we can solve this thing."

"_Fiyero._"

"And I can recover."

"_Fiyero!"_

"You need to stop listening with your mouth," he snapped.

"You're scribbling on my essay!"

There was no end and no beginning, only carnage. The dots on the I's and the swirly L's and the pretty little A's. Fiyero could hardly bring himself to face the ugly black vortex devouring them, yet he couldn't look away. "I'll write you a new one," he promised pathetically. "I don't know what's wrong with me. Unnamed Lurline, I'm so sorry."

Elphaba gently pried her pen out of his hand. She folded the paper in two, in four, in eight, and shredded it with her slender fingers. If only there could be some frustration, some Galinda-esque I'll-never-speak-to-you-again repercussion, some sobbing. "If you need the notes I'll lend them to you, but you've completely vaporized my train of thought and I was hoping to get this done," she said.

Belongings were tucked into a cloth bag that was hoisted onto her shoulder. She had something more to divulge, but she pursed her lips and turned away, leaving Fiyero thoroughly confused, stupefied and humiliated in her wake. Again.

A hand clawed at his knees and he stooped to help Boq to his feet. Here was the stroke of Galinda. The deep freeze. Hypothermia.

"Everything I do, I do for love," Fiyero informed the Munchkin.

"See if that holds up in court."

* * *

She was peering into nothing, hindsight fogging her features, when he cut through her line of vision with his hand. "Hey Sunshine, there's this great new thing you should try. It's called stoicism."

"Bite me."

Avaric smiled to himself, revelling in the obnoxious scrape of the chair against the floor as he pulled it away from the desk. "Morning all," he said to the students behind them, tipping an invisible cap. He settled in and fixed Galinda under a mega-watt, all-knowing stare.

"I'd ask you why you're looking at me, but I know you'll out it any second with that indefatigable tongue of yours," she said, point-blank.

Once upon a time Avaric might have resented such a greeting, but Galinda was an adversary of a whole new calibre. She was his friend. And, as of now, terrible at burying her agitation in last night's homework. "I don't know about Ugabu, but in the civilized realm a conversation is initiated with eye contact," he sniffed. "If only my parents knew of the riff-raff I've been associating with."

"They'd tell you Gillikin is Gillikin, and that the Uplands of the Upper Uplands are a highly-regarded family descending from the fertile northwest region of the province, and that you could learn a lot from that beautiful Galinda girl." She turned to him, lip pink and raw from the battering it had taken, eyes gaping to supplement her point. "You were saying?"

"I didn't see you in art class."

"Probably because you're not taking that course."

"Maybe," he conceded. His arm slithered over the back of her chair, brushing against a few wayward yellow strands before she rocketed forward. "A shame. As I recall, you were supposed to draw me."

Bitterness pervaded her voice. "As I recall, it was Fiyero's ploy gone wrong."

"Still a shame," Avaric repeated. "You should be seeking out subjects that challenge you; make good use of your talent. It would be sinful to squander the company of a local Ozdonis such as myself."

A peal of laughter escaped Galinda and she brought her hand to her mouth to smother it.

Avaric's forehead creased. "What?"

"What what?"

"What was that..._ha_?" he elaborated.

She raised her shoulders to her ears, all innocence. "I suppose it's just that my talent could be put to even better use by drawing other things," she said, "like nothing at all."

Avaric weighed the snub in his mind. The tainted sweetness, the masterful punchline. "Fascinating perspective," he said, and that was it.

Seizing the break in the conversation, Galinda returned to the hasty completion of her assignment. She excelled in mathematics (formulas, guesstimations, the like) and made extensive use of the natural talent by rarely studying and regularly procrastinating. At its worst, the class was still a welcome alternative to the blistering reception her writing had suffered in the uncreative slums of history. When she was juggling numbers she needn't dwell on whats and wheres and hows, because her mind would leak an answer into her hand and it would be done. No residual uncertainty, no debating, no reflection. Until, of course, an error in the calculation left Fiyero to the power of Elphaba plus Avaric's presence and her helplessness growing exponentially.

She was halfway through refactoring his perfidy when a hideous, attention-seeking cough severed her concentration and she lashed out. "_What _do you _want _from me...oh...uh, how are you today, Professor...?" Her ears caught flame. Avaric sniggered and she twisted her heel into his foot beneath the desk.

"Can red faces be saved? Stay tuned for more," he mumbled. She increased pressure.

Professor Teashay, a cadaverous man with a drone and penmanship befitting a toddler, stood over Galinda like a tower, prompting her next reattempted equation. Her sweet disposition was not at all consistent with the hatred teachers harboured on her account. "And how did your date with Madame go yesterday? Was she able to resolve your dispute?" the professor started, enjoying himself as if the dismissal had sprung from his malice rather than their volume. "I trust you've made some sort of pact to restrain yourselves."

"You'll never guess, sir," Avaric responded, ignoring the latter bit. Galinda resented his companionable manner from her roots to her toes. "Turns out koalas don't have pouches after all."

"They _do_!" she interjected.

"Galinda, please, keep your hair colour to yourself."

The professor's leer tightened. "Well, you'll be glad to know that Madame expects to be kept up to date with your little discussions, as do your parents. How did she put it? Oh, yes. _They're just a letter away._"

"Don't let that inspire you to lenience, Professor. If Miss Galinda requires her walking papers, she requires her walking papers." Avaric turned his back to the man. "You mustn't act out today, Galinda," he counseled. "I've been worried. After his scene in Dillamond's class, you shouldn't be dating the likes of Fiyero Tigelaar...oh, that's right, you're _not_."

Vying for the final say, the professor suggested, "A good rule of thumb I've found is: when you feel the urge to say something—" he paused, "—_don't._" He dropped two packages onto Avaric's desk and continued forward to inflict a stream of officious comments on the next available pair of ears.

Avaric grumbled curses under his breath, flipped the papers over, and grumbled curses over his breath. "When did we write this one?" he asked.

The last thing Galinda needed was for Avaric to catch on to her adeptness, especially now that she was seething and content to ignore him until he was an honoured member of Kumbricia's court. She lunged for her test, but as she reached she noticed that his was bleeding profusely. The scant number at the top of the page was not his total for the part, but the whole, and she said without thinking, "At least it's in the double digits this time."

"Better than I expected," he admitted, the closest to candour he'd ever given her. He crumpled the paper and tossed it onto the floor, eyeing Galinda as if she would make a grab for it. "I improvised my way through. Don't you know studying is against my religion, Sunshine?"

"I must have forgotten." Galinda tucked her test into a folder with its comrades. One day they would make for worthy ammunition against her no-longer-Vinkun children. She decided to return the honesty, also laced with jest. "Or the lack of effort is meant to mask genuine idiocy, to protect you from judgement. Does your religion require you to preach to the choir?"

He exhaled derision. "Pass all you want, Sunshine. I prefer to acknowledge that there are more important things in life than functions and relations. Like attending _actual _functions and having _actual _relations."

"And I suppose now that Fiyero's drowned in the deep end the Official Ozian Board of Sloth is trialing a new spokesman."

"What true colours you have, Sunshine." Avaric collected a few locks of her hair between his fingers and she tensed, all alarms sounding. "Not quite brunette. A nice, glossy red, methinks," he said, flattering himself. "Criticize all you want, I bet I could best your best grade before the world ends."

He relinquished her and she recoiled, patting her curls smooth. "And what do I get if you don't?"

"A damp cloth to wipe that insolent smirk off your face. What the hell are you talking about?"

"You said _I bet_," she pointed out. "Care to put some walk in that talk?"

The machinery in Avaric's head stalled so suddenly they heard the clang on the jackal moon. His ingenuity had broken his ingenuity. "A one-sided bet's no fun, Golditalks," he spewed clumsily by way of reply.

"I'll top it, don't worry."

"That's what I'm getting at." Avaric gave himself over to a smile. "We'll have to brainstorm a facet of your life that's an equivalent mess."

Galinda stared at him. He could tell she knew, so he leant back, making himself comfortable. "Well, you're popular. Not wholly unattractive. You do seem ditzy at times, but, then again, you're sitting beside _me_. The only thing, though I'd rather we didn't go there...I heard Shenshen talking the other day..."

"No, you didn't." She began tenderizing her lip again. "What was she saying?"

"She was implying that you might as well make for the mauntery. You're not getting any younger—"

"She would never say that! Who was she talking to?" Galinda demanded.

Avaric didn't answer, for suspense killed more than the murderer. "Should you procure a lover's kiss and provide me a witness before your mark is mine..." He raised his eyebrows, indicating that she should finish the sentence.

"You'll dye your hair blond and quit _Sunshining _me," she supplied.

"Oh, you _are _a cute one," he said, like she was a baby or a fuzzy animal or a blonde of superior brain power to him. He tapped his cheek, miming strenuous thought. "And when I best your mark before you assault some poor lad with those plump raspberry petals, you'll draw me."

Awash with relief, Galinda breathed. She had been braced for worse.

"_Naked_."

The breath lodged in her throat. "But—"

"I was envisioning it from a frontal angle...no matter, I'll be flexible. Provided you do a good job of it. I'd like to mount it on my bedroom wall one day." He pursed his lips, concerned. "Is something wrong?"

It was all playing out before her, and it all ended in Saint Glinda's with Sister Psychoanalyst dozing as she described the day Avaric revealed himself in all his pasty glory and bade her transmit it to paper, so that he might one day relay the same tale to the irretrievable souls that fell back onto his pillows. By the end of the daymare, Galinda's spine was so weakened from the shuddering she thought it might disintegrate. She cast her gaze downward, perched on the cusp of defeat, and noticed Avaric's crinkled test turned crystal ball.

She saw herself in twenty years attending the Shiz University reunion, in this very classroom, recounting the day she massaged hydrogen peroxide into Avaric's ginger mane to a circle of lavishly dressed aristocrats sipping cocktails. "What I doubted in myself, I doubted far more in his intelligence," Galinda the Glorious, Galinda the Gregarious, Galinda the Glamorous tells them.

"I agree to the terms," she told Avaric.

"As do I." He pulled her textbook onto his desk. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to check what comes after ten."


End file.
